Like most people, I hate going to the dentist. But over the years I’ve learnt just how deep their sadism goes.
*For the purpose of this post, I will be referring to my latest check up, but this is about all the dentists I’ve met over my lifetime. My newest dentist and his staff are actually nice. Honest! Please don’t hurt me!*
It begins with a text message they send a few days before the appointment.
“We’re looking forward to your visit!”
Yeah, I bet they are. Sitting there rubbing their hands together, sharpening their tools, all the while laughing manically at all the torturous acts they’re planning to inflict on us poor unsuspecting folks.
Now, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m a little OCD when it comes to my teeth. But on the morning of my appointment, I’m in there scrubbing and flossing and mouth washing like my life depends on it. Mostly, because it does. I mean, my teeth are sparkling and I smell like an alcoholic who raided a lorry loaded with Listerine.
The drive to the dentist is the worst. My stomach is cramping, I’m nauseous, can we please just turn the car around and go home? Please? It’s a bright and sunny day. The birds are singing, butterflies dancing on the warm breeze. And then you see it, the dentist building looming up ahead with dark clouds gathering, thunder and lightning, and the distinct cackle of the dentist inside while patients scream.
“Don’t worry,” says hubs. “You’ll be fine.”
So, somehow I manage to get through the door and give them my name.
“Take a seat and they’ll be right with you.”
This is all a ploy too, you know. How they make you sit in that little room with all the other terrified people feeding off each others fears. No one actually says anything, you just give each other that knowing look. Sweat pouring off your brow as you fidget in the uncomfortable chair. And there’s always a coffee table with dog eared magazines and missing pages, all dating back to the 1800’s when magazines were first invented.
And you wait…
When they start calling people in, the victim always looks back at those left behind, silently conveying, “Please pray for me.”
Then they muster up all the courage they can. Head held high, not wanting to show an ounce of fear. And in they go, marching onto war.
Farewell, brave soldier.
And then it’s my turn. The only one left in the room. I gulp and slowly walk towards my doom.
First, I’m forced to enter the broom cupboard where I sit in what looks like an electric chair. They pinned me down with a ridiculously heavy apron to prevent me from escaping, and just to add insult to injury, they ask, “Is everything okay?”
And all I can do is wheeze as I try to breathe despite this crushing weight on my chest.
“Open up,” she says, and proceeds to shove this oversized bit of plastic in my mouth and says, “Bite down.” All this to take pretty pictures of my teeth that they probably pin up on their wall somewhere, like trophies from their tortured victims.
I’m then marched into that room. You know which one I’m talking about. The one with the chair covered in plastic, the one with all the sharp and pointy tools on display for you to look at and wonder which ones they’ll be using on you to inflict pain.
They put that little sheet of tissue under my chin and then leave, letting me sweat some more. Maybe cry a little. Is that what the little tissue is for? To catch your tears. Sadist bastards!
Ever wondered why those chairs are covered in plastic? Think of Dexter’s kill room. It’s easier to clean up the bodily fluids in the event you pee yourself.
Next, they send in the hygienist. This is to lull you into a false sense of security as she’s always super nice. And even as she start selecting the shiniest, most pokiest of sharp tools, she’s still very gentle as she starts gouging stuff out of your mouth, all the while talking to you and asking questions.
Now, I sound like they’ve just removed my tongue and all I can do is make funny little grunting noises. Meanwhile, I have a death grip on the chair arms while trying to climb further up said chair away from the medieval torture devices, but alas, its slippery and I slide back down just where she wants me. (Another reason for the plastic covering. Never underestimate these dentists. They’re pro’s and know exactly what they’re doing.)
With the cleaning out the way, in comes Doctor Money Bags with his dentistry coat which is actually $100 bills all stitched together. He has another bill that he uses as his mask, and as he approaches, he pulls out another $100 bill from his pocket to mop his brow. He too acts all friendly, but you can tell by that glint in his eye what he’s actually thinking about.
“Open wide,” he says with the shiniest, most stabbiest looking tool I’ve ever seen in my life.
The only reason why I open my mouth is to let out the scream that’s tearing up my throat. But he takes this advantage to start poking around.
He’s not in there long before he steps back and throws his tool on the tray, pulls down his mask to show his disappointment. “No cavities,” he grumbles and stomps out of the room.
It takes a moment or two for the words to sink in since I’m traumatized in the chair. But the second they do, I’m like a new woman. I jump out of the chair and race to the front, singing “No cavities! No cavities! Ner ne ner ne ner ner.”
But in six months, I’ll know I have to go through it all again.
Until next time,